Full Fathom Five
by HardlyFatal
Summary: Brienne loses herself, and Jaime is forever changed. A conjecture about how Jaime might reunite with Brienne, now that he's left Cersei and KL to go north and fight ice zombies. Humor, drama, sex- for what more can you ask? COMPLETE
1. The Tempest

_Nothing of him that doth fade,_

 _But doth suffer a sea-change_

 _Into something rich and strange._

The Tempest, William Shakespeare


	2. Jaime

A sea-change has come to mean a metamorphosis that was unanticipated,

and seems beyond recognition in degree.

.

* * *

.

Jaime had only been on the Kingsroad a day. Approaching a crossroads, he heard the burgeoning sound of hoof-beats coming south, in his direction. He tensed and withdrew Widow's Wail from where it hung at his horse's neck, then guided the beast off the road and into the trees.

His surprise was considerable, when he saw the riders who approached.

"Brienne?" he demanded as they cantered by.

She and Podrick reined hard to a stop, their heads whipping in his direction. Her gaze locked with Jaime's, and in it, he found surprise and relief and concern. For him?

"Forget something important?" he asked. "I hate when I do that."

"Yes," she said after a moment. "In fact, I did."

"Oh?" He nudged his horse back onto the road, until he was facing her side-by-side. "What?"

"You."

"Me?"

"I was coming back to try to talk some sense into you."

He bristled, inwardly, but kept his expression bland.

"You did that at the dragon pit," he said, his tone mild. "I tried to convince her, but-"

"Not about that," Brienne interrupted. "That worked out in the end."

"Then why? What more sense do you perceive I am in need of, Lady Brienne?" Jaime was aware of the edge in his voice, but he was damned tired of people thinking his judgment was flawed.

"About your sister," she said at last.

He tensed. "In what way?"

She swallowed, aware she was treading on thin ground.

"In the way that she is going to be your death," Brienne told him. "She keeps putting you into dangerous situations."

"I _am_ lord commander of her forces," Jaime reminded her. Had the mad wench forgotten? "That rather comes with a lot of dangerous situations. Besides, I've been in many of them. With you specifically, as I recall."

"It's one thing to fight one-on-one," she grumbled. "Quite another to go up against a dragon. With a _lance_."

She reached out and actually punched him in the shoulder. Hard.

"What were you thinking, Jaime?" she demanded.

"I don't think I was," he admitted, ignoring the urge to rub the sting out of his shoulder. "I just… felt certain we were all about to die. I wanted to make sure my death meant something. To me, if to nobody else. I wanted to die while doing something other than pissing myself and crying in fear."

"To go out fighting," she murmured. He knew she understood; she'd want the same thing. In his position, she'd probably have done the same.

Her magnificent eyes studied his face, making him self-conscious. She had a way of doing it that made him feel like she was peeling back his skin and looking right inside his head. She could always see right through him, could Brienne. He had yet to decide if he hated it or not.

"We had word, during our journey from Winterfell, that you had either been roasted alive, or drowned…" She took a deep breath. "I was— we were— very relieved when we learned that you had reappeared in King's Landing, unscathed for the most part."

Jaime wondered at the correction. Was she still uneasy about admitting to their friendship? It irked him, sometimes, how she tried to hide the fact that she actually liked him.

Though, he had to admit, he wasn't exactly forthcoming about her, either. The one time he'd mentioned her to Cersei, his sister had slanted him a look that promised misery, and he'd never done it again.

"I'm difficult to kill," was all he said, in the end.

"But not impossible," she said, her tone sharp.

"You're very concerned about my welfare," he drawled, smiling on the inside when her cheeks pinkened with irritation. He'd forgotten how fun it was to vex her. "You should have come back to King's Landing and become my sworn shield."

"If I weren't sworn to Lady Sansa, I would have," she shot back.

She immediately looked chagrined, clearly not having intended to reveal that to him. She looked away, staring off into the trees in that avoidant way she had when she was embarrassed about something. Having confirmation of her fondness for him cheered Jaime up quite a bit.

"All's well that ends well, I always say," he sang out, grinning when she glared at him. Oh, she pretended to hate his levity, but he was amusing as hell and knew she thought so, too.

"You never say that," Brienne muttered. "Ever."

"I might have developed the habit while we were apart. You don't know that I didn't."

She rolled her eyes, looking about five seconds from stabbing him with Oathkeeper.

"Why are you riding north?" Brienne asked him, testily.

"To join you," he replied, then hastened to add, "All of you. Against the undead."

"Are the rest of the Lannister forces lagging behind?" She stood in her stirrups and squinted past him into the distance.

"It's just me," Jaime said, his voice very quiet.

She brought her gaze back to meet his, and stared at him for a long moment. He wondered what thoughts were tumbling around in that flaxen head of hers.

"We should keep going," he said at last. "I don't know whether Cersei sent anyone after me."

Her eyes narrowed. Her hand went to Oathkeeper's grip. Jaime wondered if she even realized she did that, every time she felt like she'd soon need to use the sword.

Then she nodded, and wheeled her mount around. He spurred his own and fell abreast of her and Podrick, on her far side. They kicked into a light canter, and soon left the crossroads behind.

"Cersei has no intention of honoring the agreement she made with Jon and Daenerys," he told them, his tone grim. "And Euron has not fled to the Iron Islands; he's gone to Essos to bring over the Golden Company."

Brienne sucked in a breath. Her eyes flickered as she processed this news.

"Why are you sharing this?" she asked, then looked at him, pinning him with her gaze.

"She promised that the Lannister army— _my_ army— would help the North and Daenerys' forces fight the undead. She is breaking that trust. But I will not. I can't—"

He cut himself short, frustrated.

"I'm tired of being on the wrong side, Brienne," he said wearily. "I've known for years that I was on the wrong side. When I killed Aerys, I thought, _I am finally doing the right thing_. And I was happy. Guilty for breaking my vow to protect him, but… happy. Because I was fulfilling a greater vow, the one I swore when I was knighted. To protect the vulnerable.

"When you said 'fuck loyalty'… that was wrong. It wasn't loyalty that was the problem. It was who I was loyal _to_ , or rather, what. Loyal to the Lannisters, but what are we? Do we uphold some shining ideal of goodness that no one bothered to tell me about? Because all I can see of our history is corruption. Lies. Cruelty."

"Myrcella and Tommen were good. My mother was good. Tyrion might have been good, if he'd been treated well. But Tyrion had to become as warped as the rest of us, to survive, and the others are all dead. Their goodness didn't save them."

"Goodness doesn't save anyone," murmured Brienne.

"Except you," he told her. "Your goodness has saved you, over and over, just as it has saved me. In ways you don't even realize."

He stopped, a bit horrified of how much he'd revealed. How much self-loathing, how much contempt. He felt, as he often did around her, ashamed of himself.

Brienne stared at him, speechless, for a long time.

"My goodness didn't save me from the bear," she said at last. "Nor from being raped. That was _you_ , Jaime. _Your_ goodness. No matter how they tried, your father and Cersei were never able to stamp it out of you. Not entirely. It's like an ember within you; a little tinder, a breath, and it flares up into a blaze."

His breath caught queerly in his chest. He could not look away from her. He _could not_.

"My lady," said Podrick from her other side, "Should we make camp for the night, or press on?"

Jaime blinked, yanked from his reverie, and realized that the sun was setting.

"What say you?" Brienne asked him. "If we press on, we'll catch up with everyone sooner."

"By all means, let us press on," he agreed.

They rode on until full dark and they risked their horses misstepping and going lame, then pulled off the Kingsroad to a clearing well-hidden from passers-by.

"I'll take first watch, my lady," offered Podrick.

"Thank you, Pod," she murmured distractedly while removing her saddle. "What supplies did you bring with you, Jaime?"

It was always so distracting when she said his name, especially offhandedly, like it was something familiar and everyday to her, a trusted pocket knife instead of a ceremonial blade trotted out for special occasions.

"Not many," he admitted. "Didn't want to take a lot of time, in case she decided to kill me, after all."

Brienne froze. "What?"

"Ah. Didn't get to that part, yet." He busied himself with unfurling his bedroll and placing it by the little fire Podrick was building inside the ring of stones he'd placed.

She started to put her own bedroll on the opposite side, but he smirked and said, "Don't tell me you've gotten shy, Brienne. We've slept together closer than some married couples. Or have you chosen to forget that?"

She froze a second time. Her glare was hot enough to light up the kindling Pod had finished stacking up. She straightened, and with a cool glance, deliberately dragged her bedroll right next to his, between it and the fire, to block him from its warmth.

Jaime burst out laughing. "Spiteful wench," he said with admiration.

Her lips were pressed tightly together, but they curled at the edges in satisfaction for having stuck it to him. She lay down on her side, back to him, and pulled her cloak over herself.

"Two hours, Pod, no more," she murmured, and was asleep almost immediately.

"I will never know how she does that," Jaime whispered to Podrick.

"Sleep of the just," the squire said promptly. "When you've a clean conscience, you don't fear your dreams."

 _Still waters run deep, with this one,_ he thought, impressed. The boy was not half so thick as he seemed at first.

He lay down on his own bedroll, his back pressed again Brienne's for warmth as had been their practice during their previous trek over the hills and dales of Westeros together. The solid breadth of her against him was reassuring and he realized he felt safe for possibly the first time since they'd last slept this way.

Though his conscience was nowhere near clean, he fell asleep right away, and didn't dream of a thing.

Jaime was woken by Podrick an obedient two hours later. Startled, he reached automatically for a knife with a hand that was no longer there.

Nor was the knife, for that matter.

"I sharpened it," whispered Pod, pointing to the shining pile of tack and weaponry by the horses, "and oiled the sheath."

Jaime got to his feet, reluctant to leave the cozy nest of his cloak and Brienne's unconscious form.

"Thank you," he whispered back. "Will you take my place? I warmed it up nicely."

"No, my lord, I have my own," the squire said, pointing to where his own bedroll had been laid out, but he made no move to head to it.

"Pod?" Jaime raised his eyebrows, wondering at the boy's delay. "You know I won't let anything to happen to her. Or you. Any of us. You can trust me with the watch."

"I know, my lord," Podrick hastened to say. "I just wanted to tell you…"

He bit his lip, looking conflicted, before stepping away from the fire and gesturing Jaime to follow him, until they were on the far side of the horses, the light from the flames so faint he could only see the pinpoints of its reflection in the boy's eyes.

"I probably shouldn't say," he mumbled. "My lady won't want me to—"

"Then you shouldn't," Jaime told him immediately. "Never betray her confidences. Really, Pod, I'm disappointed in you."

"No, my lord!" Podrick protested. "It wasn't told me to in confidence. She doesn't even know that I know."

Jaime scowled at him. "It's not a betrayal of her trust?"

Podrick shook his head back and forth so fast, Jaime could almost feel the breeze from it.

"Then you might as well say."

Podrick took a deep breath. "When she heard you had died, my lord…"

"I'm sure she was sad," Jaime said, into the silence that fell after the squire had trailed off. "We're friends. Friends are sad when they lose each other."

The idea of Brienne's death sent a shock through him, as strong as a body blow from a war hammer.

"It was more than sad, my lord," Podrick said. "She grieved for you, my lord. I never saw a face get that pale. Thought she'd fall over, even. She left to be alone, but I followed her, and—"

He stopped, swallowing hard.

"She was kneeling on the ground, bent over, like, with her hands over her mouth, and she was crying like I'd never seen a person cry. Great big sobs, and a sound like a… like a ghost, I suppose you could say. Just this long moan, over and over."

Jaime could only stare at him, speechless. He had no words in response to that; he could picture the scene as clearly as if he'd been there. It didn't seem possible that stoic Brienne, blank-faced Brienne, stalwart Brienne, could ever act so wrought with emotion.

Especially not for _him_ , the least worthy of such.

"She cried until she was sick, my lord, right there on the ground in front of her. I got her up and into her tent. Got her some water. Got her armor off, put her to bed in her cot."

"Good man, Pod," Jaime murmured.

Podrick blinked up at him, looking particularly cowlike. "She didn't remember any of it, the next day, and didn't say hardly a word until we got the next message that you were alive after all."

"What did she say, then?" Jaime asked, hating himself for needing to know, but _needing_ to know.

"I think… I think she prayed, my lord," Podrick answered. "She just closed her eyes and said 'thank you' over and over." He frowned, wondering. "Which god do you think that was for, my lord? The Stranger? The Warrior?"

"Perhaps the Mother," Jaime rasped. Something was wrong with his throat. There was a very uncomfortable lump in it.

Podrick's face cleared and he nodded. He opened his mouth to speak, but Jaime cut him off.

"Thank you for letting me know."

"I just wanted to let you know that my lady might act gruff, or not let on that she cares, but… she cares, my lord."

"I know she does, Pod."

The boy bobbed his head, smiling shyly. "I'll just get to sleep, then, my lord. My lady's watch is in two hours."

"I'll wake her," Jaime said, but he didn't, only stared into the fire until it was burned down to cinders.

Brienne woke with the dawn, as always, squinting blearily around her in confusion.

"You took second _and_ third watch?" she asked, her voice rough in a way that made Jaime's palms itch.

"I've been sleeping in a featherbed the past month," he said. "Whereas you've been laid out on the hard ground for the same time. I figured you needed the rest more than I did."

She shot him a suspicious look that had him grinning, and sat up, tugging her cloak around her and giving a little shiver. He should have kept the fire up better, he thought ruefully, and went to hand her some of the bread and cheese he'd pilfered from her rations pack during the night.

"Thanks," she said wryly, well aware he was giving her her own supplies.

He grinned again and went to toe Podrick awake. The squire jolted upright with a snort.

"Oh," he said, then laid back down and pulled his cloak over his head.

"We're leaving as soon as I'm done eating and the horses are saddled, Pod, so unless you want to live in this clearing permanently, you'll get up." But there was no rancor to Brienne's words, only amusement.

"Yes, my lady," the boy said, yawning, and stumbled to his feet.

They ate, saddled up, and were on their way in short order.

"You never told me the other part," Brienne mentioned after an hour on the road.

"Of?" The road was wide, here, letting plenty of sunlight down, and he tilted his head back, eyes closed, to bask in it.

She didn't answer, so he looked over to find her staring at him with the most peculiar expression on her face. She almost seemed in pain.

"You said you didn't want to waste time packing supplies, in case Cersei decided to kill you," she hastened to say. "What did you mean by that?"

Jaime's stomach twisted around his hasty breakfast at the memory of the ugly scene.

"I'm a very stupid man, Brienne," he told her. "I actually believed it when Cersei agreed to the truce, and pledged our— _her_ — forces to the common cause. I started giving commands right away, intending to have feet on the ground and marching north within days. When she belayed those commands, I tried, like the fool that I am, to explain to her why it was a mistake— out of her own self-interest, since she has no concept of doing things for the greater good— but not only did she not listen to me, she threatened to have Ser Gregor kill me."

He chanced a look at her. She sat very still in her saddle, her eyes huge and watchful and sorry, for him, he knew. He sighed. In truth, he did not deserve a friend such as she.

"I told her I didn't believe she would go through with it but I think, in that moment, I did not care whether she killed me or not. In that moment, I saw the reality of what she has become, and what I have supported, out of loyalty to her. I've talked myself out caring about small lies plenty of times. I'm a Lannister, and if small lies bother us, we won't last past childhood. I've even learned to ignore my conscience when it comes to larger lies, out of a need for expediency, if nothing else.

"But this is a really _big_ lie. A huge lie, and a dangerous one, that will impact every person on Westeros, down to the smallest peasant child."

Feeling the heavy mood oppressive, Jaime slanted her a mischievous glance.

"And for _some_ reason, Brienne, some mystifying reason, in the last few years, my conscience has returned to me with a vengeance. It won't let me alone, almost as if it's some gigantic woman who beats me with scalding contempt and a very fine sword that I happen to have given her myself."

"I am not your conscience, you foolish man," she grumbled, even as she fought to keep herself from smiling. "I just remind you that you have one. Someone needs to."

He grinned back, but it soon faded. He sighed.

"I am honestly, truly shocked that Cersei let me leave. I think she was just too surprised that I'd go. But she's quick to recover. Always has been. So I thought discretion might be the better part of valor, and got myself out of the city before she realized how angry she was."

"She's always taken you for granted," Brienne murmured, staring down at her hands. "Assumed you were hers to do with as she pleased. She won't take your defection well."

She looked up at Jaime. "We should be prepared for ambush, and ride harder. The sooner we're with King Jon and his men, the safer we'll be."

"The safer _you_ _'ll_ be, and Pod," he corrected, even as he kicked his mount from a trot to a canter to match her increased speed. "No guarantees that he won't strike my head off the moment he sees me."

"He won't," she said immediately. "He's not like that. At worst, he'll hear evidence and pass sentence, and he's a fair man. He won't hold you responsible for the acts of your sister or anyone else. And I'll—"

"You'll what?"

"I'll vouch for you."

"So will I, my lord!" came Podrick's voice from Brienne's other side. He was a ridiculous boy, and Jaime couldn't help but grin, at the dearness of his trying to help, not to mock.

"Good man, Pod," he said again, shooting a glance at her, pleased to see it had made her smile, too. "With two such staunch defenders, King Jon will _have_ to grant me a royal pardon."

"Let's not get carried away," Brienne murmured.

Jaime turned his face back up to the sun, and laughed.

.

* * *

.

They caught up to the Northern forces on the second day, just as the sun was setting and they were setting up camp for the night.

"Who goes— oh, it's you, my lady," said the guard they approached. "The king wanted to see you as soon as you got here."

"That was my plan as well," Brienne replied. "He in the map tent?"

"Yes, my lady." The guard's gaze flicked over Jaime, narrowing, before traveling to Podrick and nodding at him.

Brienne led them to the Dothraki part of the camp, leaving the horses with them.

"Pod, make sure a tent is put up for us, and put our things in it," she directed her squire. "It should be packed up around here… somewhere."

She used her great height to scout around for the supply carts.

"Over there, by the Unsullied, I think," she said, and then strode away, clearly expecting Jaime to follow in her wake. Amused, he just stood there and waited until she stopped and looked impatiently back at him.

"You live to irritate me," she muttered at him when he languidly strolled up to join her.

"I really do," he agreed. She just blew a breath out her nose and marched on, hand on Oathkeeper's grip.

At the camp's largest tent, she stopped before the guards.

"My lady," one of them said, then stuck his head into the flap and said, "Your Grace, Lady Brienne is here. With—"

He pulled his head back out and eyed Jaime.

"—a Lannister, by the look of it," he finished.

"There are only three of us left," drawled a familiar voice from inside, "and since I highly doubt it's the one, it must be the other."

The flap was drawn back, and Tyrion stood there, surveying the pair of them.

"Unexpected," he said, "but welcome." Standing to the side, he waved them in.

As they entered, Jaime could see the king in the North, standing quite _extremely_ close to the usurper queen, Daenerys Targaryen, as they pored over a map spread over a makeshift table. To either side stood their respective advisors, a grizzled older man by Jon and a pretty young woman by Daenerys. The eunuch, Varys, was there as well, and Jorah Mormont, and another young fellow in an exotic-looking uniform.

And, to his surprise, Sandor Clegane, who scowled at him from the far corner.

"It feels like a family reunion," Jaime said lightly.

"If you're a member of the most dysfunctional family in Westeros," said Tyrion. "Which we _are_."

"At least we're honest about it."

"Just not about anything else."

The brothers stared at each other a long moment, and the rest stared at _them_ , until they began laughing.

Jaime placed his hand on Tyrion's shoulder. With such an audience, now was not the time to speak from the heart, but he wanted to let his brother know how glad he was to see him again. Tyrion looked up at him, and there was acknowledgment in his eyes.

Jaime set back his shoulders and faced the rest.

"Your Grace," he said to Jon, and then to Daenerys, "Your Other Grace."

She was lovely, he decided, in a crystalline sort of way, like a sugared violet— fragile, brittle, prone to shattering with too much force. Not at all a sturdy wench built to survive any storm.

But there was fierceness in her eyes when she took a step toward him, studying him with a keen gaze.

"I cannot decide if your charge at my dragon and I was the bravest thing I've ever seen," she said, "or the stupidest."

"Can it not be both?" He tried out his most charming smile on her.

She stared back, stone-faced.

"Don't be an ass," Brienne muttered at his side.

Daenerys looked at her, a bit shocked.

"Not you, Your Grace, of course," Brienne hastened to say. _"Him_. He takes very little seriously, unless forced."

"It's true," Jaime agreed. "It's a well-known problem of mine."

Tyrion put a hand over his eyes, his mouth moving wordlessly.

Daenerys just kept looking at him. Her eyes were beginning to put him in mind of Brienne's; they were more amethyst than Brienne's sapphire, but they were big and reproachful and made him feel like a naughty schoolboy.

…in rather a different way, however.

"Might you be forced to seriousness if I took your other hand, Ser Jaime?" she asked, very quietly, and there was steel in both her voice and eyes.

The young man in the exotic uniform stepped forward, his hand going to his arakh. Jaime became aware that he was a single command from being maimed yet again, and this time, in a way he definitely could not recover from.

 _Ah_. He had miscalculated. She was not a woman who would respond to jokes or charm.

"I apologize, Your Grace," he said sincerely. "I meant no disrespect."

She stared a moment longer.

"To what do we owe the honor of your presence?" she asked, stepping back to rejoin Jon Snow by the map, his infraction apparently forgotten… or abeyed, for the moment, at least. "Have you led the promised Lannister troops to join us?"

"I have not."

She glanced coolly at him. "You've come alone? A bold strategy, to send a single warrior on behalf of an entire kingdom. You must be a formidable fighter, indeed."

That was a comment worth of Cersei herself; Jaime was impressed in spite of himself.

Brienne pretended to adjust Oathkeeper and elbowed him in the side.

"I'm afraid I bear the news that Queen Cersei will not be sending men to fight the army of the dead as promised," he told her, aware that all eyes were upon him. "And Euron Greyjoy has gone to ferry the Golden Company from Essos to supplement the dwindled Lannister forces. He is expected back in two months, latest."

Jon skirted the table and approached. "Did she not understand, somehow, the dire situation we face?" He clenched his jaw in frustration, turning to face Daenerys and their advisors. "We proved what we claim, beyond a doubt. You saw the wight yourself, Ser Jaime."

"I did," he confirmed. "And was horrified by it, as you are. I am no less concerned than you are by her choice."

"Let me guess," Tyrion said. "She thinks we are exaggerating. She thinks that she will let Their Graces' men fling themselves at the undead threat, whittling them down so that by the time they reach King's Landing, the Golden Company will be able to pick them off easily. Am I right?"

"You are."

"Her arrogance and lack of foresight will be her end," intoned Daenerys.

"Yes," agreed Jaime, and he was surprised at how much despair and regret he did _not_ feel at the prospect of Cersei's defeat, even her death. He became aware of Tyrion watching him carefully.

"Is that why you're here?" Jon Snow asked. "To avoid sharing her end?"

"I am here because she made a vow to you. All of you. It committed me to fighting in the North, against these creatures. I don't have much to recommend me, anymore, and I might not have made the promise, but I intend to honor it. If you'll have me."

"Your brother tells me that you were among the finest warriors in Westeros, before you were maimed." The queen surveyed him again, this time taking in the golden hand fixed to the end of his right arm. "A shame; we could have used another such knight in this upcoming war."

Jaime clenched his jaw; would he never become accustomed to being a useless shadow of his former prowess? His fury at his lack of worth, never fully banked, roiled in his belly. At his side, Brienne shifted, and her elbow nudged him again, this time not to admonish but to comfort, making his self-disgust recede a very little. _She_ found some value in him, though the gods only knew for what.

"But you were the tactician behind the subterfuge of Casterly Rock and Highgarden, were you not?"

"I was."

She peered at him a moment longer.

"Then come, and tell us what you think we can do to stop the flood of wights through the Wall?" Daenerys gestured to the map.

" _Through_ the Wall?"

"We've had a raven," said Jon grimly. "The Night King has put a hole in the wall. His army is pouring through into the Gift as we speak."

"How did he put a hole through the Wall?" The impossible had happened. Jaime was aghast, and looked to Brienne for her reaction. She was just as stunned and horrified as he was.

To his surprise, the queen bit her lip and turned away. Jon huddled around her, their faces close as he murmured to her.

"Her Grace's dragon, Viserion, was killed by the Night King when His Grace and several others captured the wight brought to King's Landing as proof for our sister," explained Tyrion, his voice grave. "Our information is that the Night King has turned Viserion into a wight. It appears that Viserion's flames have made a portion of the wall collapse."

Jaime had no words. At all. For once in his life, he could not think of a single quip or comment to make in response to such a development.

"I can see you grasp the magnitude of this catastrophe," Tyrion concluded.

"We're fucked," Jaime breathed.

"Basically, yes," said his brother.

Brienne made a disgusted sound. "If we give up before the fight's even begun, we've already lost," she snapped, fixing Jaime with a glare. "You know better than this, Jaime. Every fighter among us, in this tent, knows better."

They all looked at her, startled.

"We're not dead until we're dead. So _until_ we're dead, we fight. There is nothing else."

Jaime felt such pride in her, at that moment. Where the hell did she get her determination from? Her courage? Her fortitude?

She jolted a little, when her gaze came to rest on him after perusing the others in the tent, and they stared at each other for a long, odd moment.

"Ah, where would we be without Lady Brienne?" asked the older gentleman at Jon's side, in a comfortable Flea Bottom accent.

"Sunk, that's where," said Jon with his own broad Northern vowels and a quick smile.

Beside Jaime, Brienne flushed and stared down at the trodden ground.

"A true paragon," murmured Tyrion in a mocking tone, but blinked in surprise at the hostile look Jaime gave him.

"She _is_ a paragon," he growled at his brother. "You will not disrespect her."

And the others all stared at him again, including Brienne, who scowled fiercely.

"Apologies," Tyrion said, glancing between him and her with an expression of dawning realization that Jaime _did not like_.

The awkward silence was broken by the sound of a loud yawn.

"Sorry," said Podrick with a sheepish grin from where he stood by the tent flap, clearly having entered in discretion during the course of their tense conversation.

"We rode hard to catch up with you, Your Grace," Brienne said stiffly. "May we leave to find some dinner and sleep?"

"Of course," said Jon. "Thank you, Lady Brienne. Glad you're safely back with us." He looked at Jaime. "I'm unsure what to do about you, Ser Jaime."

"You can chain me to Brienne, if it makes you feel better," he suggested. "I'm quite used to it."

A tent full of narrowed eyes fixed on him.

"Another joke, Ser Jaime?" asked Daenerys, who had apparently recovered from her upset.

"Actually, no," he replied. "I have spent— how long was it, wench?— at least a month either tied or chained to her, in a literal sense. First as _her_ prisoner, then as her _fellow_ prisoner when we were captured."

He shot her a nostalgic smile, which she returned with a fulminating glare.

Daenerys looked to her Hand with a wide-eyed expression.

"Yes, all the Lannisters are mad in our own ways," Tyrion said in response to her unspoke question of 'is he out of his mind?' "In Jaime's case, he finds pleasure where most people would find only misery. Witness his persistent support of our sister long past when she stopped being good company in any way."

"I will vouch for him," Brienne said loudly, in a clear attempt to retain focus on the matter at hand. "And if he tries anything, I'll gut him like a trout."

"Surely something more majestic than a trout," Jaime murmured. "What about—"

"With your permission, Your Graces," Brienne said, and dragged him from the tent by his collar.

He jogged along with her, and Podrick after them both, unable to stop grinning as she grumbled imprecations and threats of bodily harm. Nothing got his blood going like driving her crazy.

"Pod, did you get a tent for us?" she demanded, steering their trio toward the kitchen area that had been set up.

"No, my lady," he replied. "There aren't any spare. Might have been claimed by someone else, they think. Maybe we can bunk in with some others? Some of the Unsullied are nice lads—"

Brienne shook her head, taking the bowl of stew and hunk of bread handed to her by the cook. They brought their bowls to where some planks had been laid across a few tree trunks, forming crude tables, and sat on the assembled stools to eat. The stew brought welcome warmth to Jaime's belly, and he was feeling pleasantly full and sleepy when they were done.

"We can sleep in the open again, if we must. It looks to be a clear night," she said eventually.

Overhead, the sky was cloudless and brightly lit by a nearly-full moon, but their breath was misting in the frigid air. Without the heat trapped by the confines of a tent, there was a good chance of frostbite, and Jaime had already lost enough body parts. He wanted to keep all of his toes and remaining fingers, if at all possible, and said as much.

"Found you," said a voice at his elbow, and Jaime jolted a bit to find his brother at his side. "King Jon says that if you can't find a tent, you may use his." He paused, then added delicately, "He will not be needing it."

Brienne and Jaime exchanged a knowing glance.

"That is very kind of His Grace," she said. "Please thank him for his kindness."

"I'd offer to let you share mine," said Tyrion, "but…" He trailed off, a heavy-lidded look coming to his face as a camp follower sauntered across the clearing toward him. "It wouldn't do to keep you awake all night."

Brienne grimaced. Jaime bit his lip to keep from grinning.

"Noted," he said. "Don't strain anything."

"Oh, don't worry," Tyrion replied. "I am well-practiced at keeping limber for this sort of thing."

Brienne _flinched_. Jaime couldn't hold back his laugh. Tyrion ambled off with the woman, his hand firmly planted on her buttock.

"Well, let's find this worthy-of-a-king tent and get some rest," Jaime said.

Podrick jumped to his feet. "I'll bring our things," he said, and took off.

Brienne handed Jaime her uneaten piece of bread. "Your brother has turned my stomach," she grumbled.

He grinned and ate it in three bites, glad to have a little more. He might need some extra padding if he were to survive in the chilly North.

She guided him to Jon's tent. It was large but plain, well-mended along myriad rips and tears, and sparsely furnished— there was just a single large bed, and a low stool squatting in each of the four corners.

Podrick arrived shortly thereafter.

"A bed at last," he said happily, spreading his bedroll along one side of it.

"Are we to share?" Jaime asked. "This will be a new one for me."

When Brienne and Podrick looked at him, confused, he clarified, "…sharing a bed with two people. And one a man."

Podrick blinked, understanding but ignoring the innuendo, and Brienne flushed but glared.

"Oh, be quiet," she muttered, unfurling her own bedroll down the center.

Jaime muttered, himself, about their complete absence of any sense of humor, but shook out his bedroll on the far side of the bed. They wasted no time in climbing on, and Jaime was struck— just a little— by how incredibly comfortable it was to not only have the soft (if prickly) straw mattress below them, and Brienne (no less prickly) pressed all along one side, radiating heat. He tilted his head to rest against Brienne's shoulder.

"Goodnight, wench," he whispered, stifling a laugh when she sighed in exasperation, and was still smiling when he fell asleep soon thereafter.

.

* * *

.

Jaime woke the next morning when Brienne gasped in his ear and pulled away, letting cold air rush over his back, where she'd been curled around him from behind. That gasp told him she hadn't done it on purpose and was fairly horrified to learn it had happened. He lay there silently, not wanting to embarrass her by letting her know he was aware of how closely she'd been clinging to him.

Also because he did not want to reveal to her in any way the erection that had begun to form the moment he'd woken and become aware of the position they'd been in, and the sense of security and comfort that came from being surrounded by her.

This was getting… complicated.

Well, _more_ complicated.

He watched through slitted eyes as the feel of her heat dissipated and she glanced around at her companions. Satisfied Jaime and Podrick were still both unconscious, Brienne went through the fastest change of clothing he'd ever seen. Fast, yes, and covered again in mere seconds, but not _so_ fast that his keen eyesight missed the the prominence of cold-puckered nipples in profile, the pale curve of haunch and thigh as she brought up each foot to step into fresh breeches.

With a last worried glance at him— not, curiously, at the still-sleeping Podrick— Brienne fled the tent, and Jaime was left with a snoring squire and a cock rigid enough to pound nails.

It was getting more and more hard (pun intended) to pretend he saw her only as a friend. If he were to be honest with himself, it had been hard (pun still intended) since Riverrun, when she'd tried to persuade the Blackfish to surrender. His relief to see her again, the fondness he'd felt to witness her familiar mannerisms, the way she moved and spoke…

The way she pushed him to be a better man, as no one else ever had. The faith she had, that he could be a better man at all.

That relief was not what he might have felt to see an old friend. It was not even what he felt to see his brother, though it had been no less strong.

 _Fine,_ he thought grudgingly. _I admit it. I want her._

As an admission, it wasn't much. Far more than he'd ever expected of himself, however, so that was something.

He marveled at the bizarreness of how the only woman besides Cersei to ever tempt him was her absolute, polar opposite, in every way that existed. He'd have thought that, since Cersei was his ideal woman, he'd have been susceptible only to her like: delicate and beautiful, graceful and slender, a deceptively gentle appearance concealing a mind of great cunning and calculation.

It made no sense, until suddenly, it did.

Jaime had gravitated to his ideal, alright.

And it wasn't Cersei.

On the far side of the bed, Podrick stirred. Yawned, stretched.

"Morning, my lord," he mumbled, rolling from the bed to find his pack. He extracted clean clothes, stripped and dressed with the same economy of motion shown by his lady, and left the tent, as if Jaime had not just been rendered thunderstruck by a realization that rocked him to his core.

All that delicate beauty and slender grace meant nothing to him. Not anymore. He'd learned, first-hand, how useless it was. Cersei would not have survived what Brienne had: the hardship, the humiliation. She was reliant on the deference shown to her by the power she held over others, the power of her beauty, or rank, or wealth. Without that deference, she was nothing.

When Cersei had threatened his life, she couldn't even get the job done herself, but had looked to the monstrous Gregor Clegane to do her bidding.

Jaime turned from his side to his back and stared blindly up at the tent roof.

Brienne was not reliant upon anything but herself. Friendless, despised for her size and ugliness, she'd fought her way to the confidence and trust of the highest powers in the land based upon nothing but the solidity of her character. Character that, most certainly, would not permit her to have anything to do with him beyond comradeship.

It appeared that his fate was to suffer yearning after impossible women.

He lay there on the itchy straw mattress for a long time, until Brienne entered the tent.

"It's late," she said. "Are you ill?"

"In spirit, if not in body," he muttered, sitting up.

She studied him. "I'll go save you some breakfast."

He flashed her a grin, standing and scratching at his chest. _Damned itchy straw._ "You're too good to me."

"Yes, I am," she said faintly, sounding distracted. He looked up and found her staring at his waist. Or, in particular, where his breeches had ridden down, and scratching had rucked his tunic up, and how his waist and its environs were fully exposed to the chilly morning air.

To his amazement, a spark of desire lit her extraordinary eyes. Color blazed into Brienne's cheeks and she whirled away.

"Breakfast," she repeated, and left the tent.

 _Well,_ he thought, _at least I_ _'ll not be suffering alone._

.

* * *

.

The next three weeks were the most peculiar of Jaime's life. The most peculiar, and somehow, the most pleasant, in spite of the absence of any sex whatsoever, but the addition of sundry people he never thought he'd come to enjoy the company of.

This included, in particular, that of one Sandor Clegane.

The Hound no longer, Clegane had undergone some sort of sea change upon deserting his position in the Kingsguard. His personality was still terrible, but the brutal edge that seemed to keep him on the constant verge of mayhem had gone. Things that would have gotten a person slit open from throat to groin, before, now just gained the offender a vicious obscenity-laden tirade, if Clegane even reacted at all beyond a weary "fuck off".

Brienne seemed to actually _like_ him. She laughed at his jokes, which were always cloaked in so much dry sarcasm that they hardly passed for humor, and participated with enthusiasm in discussion with him of fighting techniques. Both declared themselves eager to finish their journey so they'd have some free time to 'really' spar with each other. What the difference was between how they bashed at each other almost daily, and what they planned to inflict upon each other at Winterfell, was not explained to Jaime.

"You'll be well-matched," he had commented at one point, making them both grin, a gruesome sight.

It was late, after both the dinner meal and the evening's sparring, and all combatants had shed their armor to lounge around a fire until bedtime. Around one quarter of the fire were Jaime with Brienne, Podrick, and Clegane.

"Yes," said Brienne, "we were."

"You've fought before?" asked Jaime. He had yet to get her to reveal more of her adventures upon their separation, a few years ago.

"She killed me," Clegane said, engaged in sharpening his axes. "Damn near ate off my other ear, then chucked me off a cliff."

"You're looking quite lively in spite of your untimely passing, I must say."

"New haircut," said Clegane, stone-faced. "It can work wonders on a man."

Podrick grinned; Brienne _giggled_. Jaime stared at him. Who _was_ this man? He bore resemblance to The Hound everyone had known and feared in appearance only.

"You know what, keep that up," Jaime said. "You're far more terrifying like this than you ever were before. The army of the dead won't know what hit them."

"He kicked me in—" Brienne stopped, picking her way delicately through the verbal battlefield. "A place that customarily only men are kicked." She paused. "It was quite painful."

"Not like you're using it," Clegane shot back.

To Jaime's shock, Brienne laughed. Guffawed, really. And then said, "The only one of us using anything is Pod, here."

The squire ducked his head, scrubbing more furiously at the saddle he was oiling. Jaime's head spun; he was unaccustomed to a Brienne who made bawdy jokes. And the idea of Pod being a master cocksman strained credibility, as well.

Clegane peered at him. "We should spar, you and I. I've been using two weapons to fight, recently, instead of the great sword, and I could use more practice with my off-hand." He squinted down at the gold prosthesis. "And since all you've _got_ is an off-hand, now…"

"He can still bear a shield on his right arm," Brienne said, always his steadfast defender, adding, "I've commissioned one from that blacksmith fellow, for as soon as we reach Winterfell."

"Robert's bastard?" asked Clegane. Brienne nodded.

"Wait. What?" Jaime said. "What if I don't _want_ to fight with a shield? And… one of Robert's bastards is here? And a blacksmith?"

"And a whiner," added Clegane. "But a decent smith."

"You need a shield," Brienne argued. "Since your coordination is compromised, having to use your off-hand, you need a way to mitigate the blows you can't parry."

"Probably little point to me fighting at all," Jaime grumbled. The loss of his hand rendering him all but useless was still a wrench at his innards. "Might as well sit back with the women and old men while the actual soldiers fight."

"Sit back with whom?" Brienne asked coolly, not impressed with his comment. "Your self-pity is not productive. You're still young and strong and will be needed in the war to come. You weren't expert with your right until you'd practiced for years with it. You just have to practice and learn to use your left hand, instead."

"It will never be as good as my right."

"But it's all you've got," said Clegane, cruel in his brevity.

Jaime opened his mouth to deliver a blistering set-back but Brienne cut him off.

"You were blessed with everything and never appreciated it until you lost one thing. One thing, Jaime." She looked at him intently. "Try starting out lacking something very important." Brienne gestured between herself and Clegane. "I started out being a woman, and ugly, as well. Clegane's had to deal with his monster of a brother, and then the scars. Your brother was born a dwarf, and worse, related to your father and sister. But we're all still here."

"You're still here, too. You just have to overcome, you spoiled cunt." Clegane smirked and went back to running the whetstone over his ax-blade.

Brienne and Podrick were silent, watching for Jaime's reaction. He had a peculiar feeling, that how he responded would have more of a bearing on his future than he might be able to foresee.

He could press onward, set Clegane a scorching insult which would doubtlessly be returned with interest, and destroy the fragile rapport that had been building among all of them. _And_ show he was, as had been pointed out, a self-pitying and spoiled cunt, incapable of accepting reality or using criticism to improve.

Jaime buried his face in his hand, rubbing it hard. "It's all so ridiculous."

"What is, my lord?" asked Podrick.

"Everything. All of it. All of us. Ridiculous. Nothing makes sense anymore. Build a fence around Westeros, you'd have one big madhouse."

"Now you've got it," said Clegane. _Scrape scrape scrape_ went his whetstone. "If you give up on forcing everything to make sense, then you've nothing to rail about when it doesn't."

It was too much. Jaime's beleaguered brain could not keep up. He stood and stumbled away toward the king's tent, which had been given to them for their exclusive use the remainder of the journey, and collapsed onto the bed, his face buried in the sad little flat pillow Brienne counted as a camping luxury.

"Budge over," she said, amusement in her voice. He cracked up an eye to find her kneeling on the bed beside him. He heaved himself up, only to reposition himself so he could drop his head to her lap. She said nothing, but a moment later, her hand came down on his head, stroking lightly over his hair.

"Since when is Clegane a wise mystic?" he mumbled into her thighs. "Since when do you crack rude jokes? And what was all that, about Podrick having the most active love life of any of you? That suggests that you and Clegane have love lives to begin with, and that's just terrifying."

"Everyone has some sort of love life, Jaime," she said patiently, amused. "Even ugly people like Clegane and myself."

"Didn't mean it that way, wench." He wriggled a little, getting himself into a more comfortable position and rubbing a cheek on her knee. "Was talking more about his behavior than his looks."

"What about _my_ behavior? If it's not my looks, what's scaring the men away?"

"Me," he said automatically, without conscious thought. "You'll never pull anyone with me hanging about all the time."

"I had not a single suitor in my life, before meeting you, nor for a long time thereafter while we were apart. Still you?"

"Still me," he confirmed. "Even when we're far apart, I hang over you like a dark cloud."

"Ah," said Brienne, her hand still moving over his hair. "Is that what that is?"

"Yes," he mumbled, and fell asleep.

Eventually, they arrived at the point where they must leave the Kingsroad to head west, toward Winterfell. It would be only a few more days' travel until they reached their destination.

Jaime had mixed feelings about that, because once at Winterfell, he would undoubtedly be given his own room— or cell, depending on how warm a reception he was given by the ladies of the castle, for Jon had said he would not counter whatever decision his sisters came to about him— and that would be the end of his nocturnal embraces with Brienne.

He had just as much chance of waking curled around her as he had of being nestled into the shelter of her body. Whoever was on the outside would have their free arm wrapped around the other, and their face buried against the other's hair or neck or shoulder. At first, Jaime had been uneasy, those times he was on the outside, because he didn't want her to feel uncomfortable to realize what that insistent pressure was against her arse.

Then he realized that it didn't make her uncomfortable, not unless his faculties had gone begging, because he could feel the tension in her body, and the quick shallow breaths she took, and— if she were particularly confident he was _very_ deeply asleep, the way she carefully, carefully pressed back against him.

On the other hand, he was somewhat relieved to end said nocturnal embraces, because nothing ever came of them, and they invariably left him with a persistent erection that he'd have to get rid of once both she and Podrick had left the tent. Surreptitiously, desperately hoping neither of them would return before he was finished, he'd pull himself off while thinking of the most bizarrely tame scenes.

Not for him, the perversions of many of his peers, or his brother. No, Jaime's fantasies were merely of calloused fingertips ghosting over his skin, and a strong palm stroking hard along his cock, and long-muscled legs circling his hips; brilliant blue eyes turned hazy with desire, locked with his own, and his name on her lips, his name again and again.

"Jaime," she'd wail, quivering around him, and he would come so hard it nearly hurt.

"You have a bruise, just there," she commented one day, pointing in the general area of where he customarily bit his lip to stifle his groans of ecstasy each morning.

"Is that right?" he just murmured back. "Clegane must have walloped me yesterday."

He was not sure how much longer he could bear the situation.

As distraction from his plight, Jaime threw himself into strategizing with the king and queen and the rest about how to combat the army of wights coming at them, and attempting to hone some sort of edge into his fighting skills.

Clegane suggested he give up on blades, which depended on dexterity, of which he would never have much with his left hand, and move on to blunt weapons.

"I don't recommend a morning-star, though, no matter how much you might like the idea of turning someone into a pincushion. The spikes get stuck. Hard to pull the fucker back out of a man once you hit him with it. But a flanged mace… gods, the damage you can do with a flanged mace." Clegane sighed with nostalgia. "No finesse needed at all, just a good strong shoulder. Bang away with a mace, combine it with a shield, you'll be unstoppable."

"What will I do with this, then?" Jaime asked, tapping his hip, where Widow's Wail hung.

Clegane looked with contempt at its ornate pommel. "Get it reforged into that mace," he said. "Then, if you've survived when it's all over, give it and Oathkeeper back to the Starks."

Clegane, like Podrick, also seemed to have hidden depths.

Jaime begged a flanged mace and a shield from one of the armorers, and in short order was gleefully bashing at anyone who'd come anywhere near him. His shoulders and arms ached for weeks, while he got accustomed to using different muscles in unfamiliar ways.

When Podrick was busy, Brienne would agree to rub liniment into his skin, so Jaime arranged for the squire to make the acquaintance of some of the camp followers most highly recommended by Tyrion. The boy would disappear for at least an hour after each nightly spar, leaving Jaime sore but happy as he approached Brienne armed with a jar of salve and a woeful expression.

If he felt at all pathetic, having to resort to subterfuge to get her hands on him, he banished any such pangs. And if she were suspicious, she never let on, just huffed as if he were imposing upon her dreadfully. In the end, her strong hands were rubbing ointment all over his torso on a nightly basis, and all was justified.

It was especially difficult to fall asleep after that, he found, however. The blood would pound in his cock, and every minute movement or shift by Brienne at his side, close enough that they touched all along one side, felt like an earthquake through him.

A week before they reached Winterfell, their procession caught up to a ragged group of survivors from Eastwatch. They had traveled day and night, with nearly no rations, to get to Winterfell ahead of the army of the dead who, fortunately, were not exactly fleet of foot. Their de facto leader, one Beric Dondarrion, had _wept_ to find his former companions surrounding him, taking the last of his men to safety. He hadn't eaten or slept in days and looked almost as ghastly as the wight Jon and Daenerys had brought to King's Landing.

"None of that blubbering, we've got you now," grumbled Clegane as he bore the man as easily as a child in his arms, to a cart warmly-lined in straw and furs.

Also not faring well was one of the head wildlings, with hair and a beard in a particularly lurid shade of orange. He'd received a terrible blow to the head and been senseless for days. Once awake, he had rambled on and on about how he was going to wed a giant. Together, they would have the biggest, strongest children in the world.

Hearing that, when Beric recounted the tale the next day, had confused one half of their assembly and amused the other. With the exception of Brienne, that was; she seemed to know exactly what it meant, but had not found it funny in the slightest. She had tossed Jon, who was foolishly grinning, a surprisingly hostile glance— making the usually-stoic king _giggle_ — and stomped off.

"What was that all about?" Jaime asked mildly, dying of curiosity, as he followed her through the encampment.

"It's nothing," she muttered, eyes straight ahead and cheeks very pink. "Nothing at all."

"My lady," called a voice from behind them, and they turned to find Beric Dondarrion approaching. He had recovered exceptionally well, after a full day's sleep and several good meals, and now only looked _nearly_ dead, instead of _already_ dead _and_ recently exhumed.

"Ser?" said Brienne in that tone that Jaime recognized as the one she used when striving for politeness while holding her temper.

"About Tormund…"

Jaime felt her stiffen beside him at the very sound of the man's name.

"Yes?"

"He's been asking for you, my lady," said Beric apologetically. "He has spoken often of his desire to see you again, at least once before he dies."

"He's dying?" she asked, which outraged Jaime, because she _should_ have been asking, _'Why does this madman think of me when he's on the verge of death?'_

But she did not appear confused as to the cause of the wildling's actions, just resigned. It was almost as if this behavior was expected. Had Tormund been _pursuing_ Brienne for a while?

"Not dying. Not anymore, at least," Beric qualified. "But likely to be bed-ridden for a while longer, and perishing of boredom." He paused. "In truth, we'd all appreciate a respite from his frustration, and hoped you might visit him, for just a few moments? In case it would make him less…"

He trailed off, attempting diplomacy, but Brienne's mouth quirked into a mischievous little grin.

"Maddening?" As if she had plenty of experience in withstanding the man's more difficult traits.

 _How well did she know him?_ Was it possible that she reciprocated his attentions?

Several loose threads suddenly tied themselves together in an ugly knot: could Brienne be the giant this Tormund wanted to have babies with?

And could she somehow reciprocate his affections?

The idea that she might have built a relationship of some sort, with a wildling named _Tormund Giantsbane_ of all things, had the urge to do great violence swelling in Jaime, almost stronger than he could resist. He had to use enormous restraint to keep from finding the wildling's tent and dashing his already-injured brains out with the borrowed mace.

 _Mine,_ his heart howled. _Never yours._

But she wasn't his, and never would be.

He tamped back his yearning and tried to focus on what she and Beric were saying to each other.

"Fine," she was sighing. "I'll come see him. For a short while, only. I have Podrick's evening lesson, and promised to spar one last time with Clegane, and—"

"Thank you, my lady," Beric interrupted, but courteously. "I'll let him know to expect you."

She sighed again, but did not move to follow him when he departed to make his way to a tent on the far side of the camp. She shook her head in amusement, turning to share it with Jaime, but frowned instead.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "You look…"

She trailed off, apparently lacking proper words to describe how he looked. That was fine; he lacked proper words to describe how he felt.

Jaime forced a grin. "Let's go see what the wildling wants."

She blushed again and ducked her head. "I know what he wants. You can… why not go find Clegane or Pod, spar a bit?"

She was meeting with another man— a man who wanted to marry her and father her children— and Jaime was not allowed to come along? His anger swelled, now encompassing her, as well as this Tormund. There was no rhyme or reason to it; he had no arrangement with her, no promise, but it felt like she was cheating on him.

"You've got that look again," Brienne accused. "What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing," he almost snarled, and then got himself under control again. "Have your visit. I'll see you later."

He stalked off in the direction of where Clegane was spending his free time after dinner systematically demolishing all challengers. When Jaime rounded a tent, however, he doubled back another way, and saw her begin to walk in the direction Beric had taken. He quickened his pace to a jog and arrived at the back of the wildling's tent at nearly the same time she arrived at its front.


	3. Brienne

An object lost in five fathoms of water is considered irretrievable.

.

* * *

.

Brienne forced Jaime from her mind as she approached Tormund's tent. Her nerves felt shredded, after the last weeks on the road, not only due to the rigors of winter camping and hard riding each day, but because such proximity to Jaime was becoming increasingly fraught with danger. Her days with him were just as entertaining and infuriating as always, and the nights…

Ah, the nights…

She looked forward to them fiercely, and wasn't that a laugh? To long for nothing more than sleeping chastely by his side each night, expecting nothing more?

Expecting nothing more, but wanting everything more. _Everything_. She woke in the night, sometimes. If, at that time, he was curled around her, she could feel his cock tucked neatly between her buttocks. If it happened to be angled downward, instead of upward, then it would be slipped between her legs, right up against her center, and she would cut eight little crescents into her palms with her fingernails, clenching her fists so hard to keep them off of him.

One of the greatest pleasures, and shames, of her existence was how she would rub herself against him, so gently, so lightly. The hell of it was that his arm would always be slung over her hip or waist, at those moments. It would be the work of a mere second to push his hand lower, to press it between her thighs, to feel the pad of his finger right where she needed it most.

Almost as tempting, and just as difficult to resist, were those times she woke to find herself wound around him. That muscled back, those wide shoulders, up against her chest, and her hips cradling his in their curve. Her arm would be around him, her palm flat against his chest, pressing him back against her. The scent of him would be in her nose, clean healthy male musk, and she wanted to bury her mouth against his throat, suck and kiss the sun-browned skin…

And then there were the nightly sessions where Podrick would disappear for an hour, leaving her to massage liniment into his wide back and broad shoulders and thick arms. Sometimes, after a particularly grueling bout with Clegane or one of the Dothraki or Unsullied, Jaime would ask her to rub some into his chest and belly, as well. Brienne was amazed, frankly, that she hadn't simply caught fire from an unsightly combination of embarrassment and lust.

It wasn't too bad, when she could work on him from behind. In the privacy of their tent, with no one to watch, she could be as avid as she liked in her appreciation of his body. But when her hands were on the strong slabs of muscle running down his torso, she thought how easily she could slide them up his neck, to clasp his face and kiss him as she'd longed to do for years.

Then she thought of how easily he would jerk away, and the expression of distaste and horror on his face, and the end of their friendship. That would sober her like a splash of frigid water; she'd finish up with detached efficiency and leave him in the tent to fall asleep. Then she would find some peaceful spot to stare up at the stars and rail silently at the gods for letting her fall in love with an unattainable man.

When she was done venting her spleen, she'd return to their shared tent and crawl between him and Podrick, both already unconscious. Jaime would invariably turn to her, instinctively reaching out for closeness and comfort, and damn her if she didn't indulge in it, letting him clasp her close, holding him tightly in return. The rapid oscillation of her emotions presented an increasing challenge to her determination to maintain some level of blank facade. Bad enough to _feel_ that way; worse to have the world _know_ she felt that way.

Jaime, too, had become increasingly grouchy as they traveled. She wondered at the cause until she realized that there were so many reasons for it that there was simply no point in expecting him to be otherwise. Escaping Cersei, resentment over her dishonesty, reuniting with his brother, reconciling the fact that he was to be fighting with the enemy, reconciling the fact that he actually rather _liked_ the enemy far more than the Lannister side… no, the miracle would have been if he _weren_ _'_ _t_ struggling to cope.

It was just as well they were nearly to Winterfell. Between her agitated, restless sleep, and his heightened irritation, she was not sure their friendship could bear much more. Her sanity, for certain, was worn to its thinnest shreds.

"Let's go see what the wildling wants," said Jaime, with a grin that looked frayed at the edges.

Brienne did not think she could bear it, having Tormund be… Tormund… while Jaime watched. She was already a comical sight, with her height and her lack of looks. To have another ludicrous figure behave so buffoonishly, leering and seducing like an overacted character in a play, would render the situation even more humiliating for her. Was she not permitted even a little dignity?

She avoided his gaze. "I know what he wants. You can… why not go find Clegane or Pod, spar a bit?"

The unpleasant grin left his face, replaced by a expression with which she was starting to become unpleasantly familiar, as if he were hurt and confused and angry and betrayed, all at the same time.

"You've got that look again," Brienne accused. "What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing," he snapped. "Have your visit. I'll see you later."

He walked off, nearly vibrating with indignation. Brienne watched him for a few moments, even when annoyed at him unable to keep from appreciate the fineness of his form.

Able to delay no longer, she turned and made her way to Tormund's tent. Here was another man who was vexing her, of late. The number of complications that men brought to her life was staggering. She was looking forward to returning to ladies Sansa and Arya. Now that the queen and her advisor, Missandei, were joining them, Brienne had hopes of a lively group of females to spend time with instead of having to make do with the gents all the time.

She knocked on the tent pole. At his rough inquiry, she said, "It's Brienne of Tarth. Ser Beric told me you had asked to see me."

His delighted gasp could be heard from the other side of the heavy canvas. "Yes! Come in!"

She ducked inside. It was dim, but there was a lantern hanging from the ceiling strut, and a few candles around the perimeter of the space. Tormund sat up on his cot, propped up against a huge pillow sewn crudely from several skins. His hair and beard were wild as ever, looking like live flames in the flickering candlelight, even more vivid in contrast to the whiteness of the linen wrapped around his forehead. She stood by his cot, and he gazed up at her with a look of such adoration that she felt her face heat in a fiery blush, even as she swallowed her irritation.

"Did you hear what happened?" he asked, motioning to a stool in the corner.

She drew it over, sat down. "I heard about Viserion and the Wall."

"I was on top of the Wall when the dragon came. It were like nothing I ever saw. Or hope to see again, but I know I likely will. Had to rappel down when it were over, even with this." He gestured to his bandaged head. "If not for Beric, I'd not have made it. Good man."

She blinked. To climb down a sheer ice wall with a major concussion, while avoiding wights, was an extraordinary feat, and she said so.

"Bah. You'd have done the same."

Well, yes. She probably would have. Didn't lessen the accomplishment for him.

The avid look she was used to seeing on his face, when he would stare at her as if starving, had calmed fractionally, leaving behind only keen appreciation. She found it far more appealing, and relaxed fractionally.

"Thing that kept me going was the hope of seeing you again," Tormund continued.

And now she was tense again. He noticed, and laughed.

"Don't fret, woman," he said in that growly voice of his. "I expect nothing of you. I just wanted to honor my promise to myself. I said, Tormund, you fool, if you make it through this, you can go back to Winterfell. If you go back to Winterfell, she'll be there."

"Ser," she began, but he snorted.

"None of that," he said. "Like my friend Clegane, I'm no ser."

She quirked a brow in surprise. "You befriended Clegane?"

"Someone had to. Can you think of a man more in need of friends?" He shot her a grin, just a shade less manic than its usual manifestation.

That was… oddly sweet. Generous.

"I can think of one," she murmured, looking down at her folded hands, thinking of Jaime. She doubted that, before her, he'd ever had anyone besides his siblings and father, and the gods knew none of them could be confided in or relied upon, though perhaps Tyrion, if one impressed upon him the seriousness of situation, and how neither drink nor whores were the solution to it…

A huge, rough hand came down over hers. She looked up, startled, to find Tormund watching her.

"Tell me about him," he said.

"About who?" A tendril of alarm curdled in her stomach.

"The one who needs a friend. Who makes you look so sad and happy at the same time. You love him, don't you?"

It felt like a punch to the gut, hearing it spoken aloud for the first time. Brienne's face crumpled, writhing as its muscles tried without success to keep from showing any reaction. To her horror, she felt tears come. She clamped her eyes shut and bowed her head, hunching reflexively over her knees to hide as much of herself as possible.

The other big hand cupped the back of her neck and drew her forward until her face was pressed to a broad shoulder. She resisted only a moment, because his touch was nothing but comforting and she needed comfort so very much. She cried against him, just a little, just for a short while. When she had composed herself, she sat back, swiping her hands over the wetness on her face and smiling in foolish embarrassment.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry."

"Why?" He shrugged. "We all cry."

She darted a wide-eyed look at him before rubbing her sleeve across her eyes one last time. No shaming her for her weakness? No recriminations for employing the 'woman's weapon' of tears? How…

…pleasant?

"Yes," was all she ended up saying. "I suppose we do."

He gave her a strangely gentle little smile. "So, you're in love. I knew there had to be a reason you were resisting me."

She blinked at him a few times. "That's… some very convenient logic, ser."

"What else could it be?" He boomed out a laugh. "I'm young and strong, still. Touched by fire, which makes me verrrry handsome."

He waggled his gingery eyebrows, making her laugh, as well.

"A woman would either have to be mad to deny me, or already given her heart away," he concluded. "You're the sanest woman I've ever met, except for Lady Sansa, maybe, so it had to be the other."

"You're mad as a coot, so one of you needs to be sane," she ventured, and it sent him laughing again.

"Good point!" Then he sobered. "Tell me about him. I want to know more about my rival, this man who is keeping us apart."

She startled at that, but his face was teasing, not serious.

"I don't know what to say," Brienne replied. "I don't speak of it. For several reasons."

"Hm. Have you known him long?"

"A few years."

"Is he a good man?"

"Yes."

"Of course he is; you wouldn't love a bad man. Not you."

"You idealize me, ser. I'm just as capable of poor decisions as anyone."

"Not a decision, to fall in love, is it, though?"

She stared at him, remembering. "We don't get to choose who we love," she whispered.

Tormund watched her, his eyes knowing. "No."

Brienne felt tired. Wrung out. Emotions were hard for her, and there had been a lot of them in a very short period of time, that evening.

"I should go," she told him, standing. She put the little stool back from where she'd gotten it. When she turned back to him, he was looking at her, watching her motions with admiration. She felt a rush of affection— purely platonic— for him.

"Thank you," she told him. "I haven't been kind to you. I didn't take you seriously. But please know that I am honored by your attentions, even if I cannot accept them."

"Such a fancy way of telling me to fuck off," he murmured, amusement curling his mouth.

To her horror, a giggle escaped her. "I was telling you no such thing," she replied sternly.

"Prove it," he challenged, "and come visit me again. While we travel. I'm trapped in a fucking cart all day, nothing to stare at but the mule pulling the cart behind mine. I'm starting to hate mules."

"I'll send Clegane, since you're so fond of him."

"That's not like to lift my mood," he pretended to grumble. "Gloomy fucker, he is."

Brienne touched her hand to his shoulder, then turned and left the tent. Outside, she closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath, striving for composure. It would not do to return to her side of the camp and have Podrick and Jaime and— gods forbid— Clegane see she'd been in a state.

But when she opened her eyes again, Jaime was standing there, with an expression on his face she'd never seen before, and which she had no hope of interpreting. With a searing glare, Jaime turned and walked away.

"Jaime?" Confused— concerned— Brienne followed.

Nothing. Concern gave way to irritation.

"Jaime!" She reached out, grabbed his arm, the same way she had at the dragon pit.

He stopped, too, just as he had that day, and the expression he turned on her was just as fierce and frustrated.

"Don't touch me," he forced past gritted teeth, "unless you mean it."

As he strode away, Brienne scowled, trying to puzzle that out. _Unless she_ _meant_ _it?_

"That doesn't make any sense," she snapped, catching up to him quickly on her long legs. They marched past where Podrick and a few of other squires to approach their shared tent.

"It does so," he snapped back. "You just don't want to admit it."

He shoved back the flap to their tent and stomped inside. Brienne threw her hands up in the air and rolled her eyes, then followed him in.

"Are you going to tell me why you're angry at me?" she asked. "At least give me a fighting chance to defend myself."

"There's no defense." He glared at her, then demanded, "Who is he?"

She frowned. "He? He who? Tormund?"

"The man you love," Jaime hissed, stepping close to her, his face mere inches from her. "Who is this man you love?"

Shock rippled through her, and fury. "You were listening? You eavesdropped on my private conversation?"

"How else am I supposed to learn anything?" he said, starting to pace. _"_ _You_ clearly weren't going to tell me."

"Because it's none of your business," Brienne almost shouted.

Podrick chose that poor time to enter the tent, his eyes huge and concerned. He opened his mouth to speak, but they both turned on him.

"Get out," said Brienne.

"Don't come back," said Jaime.

The squire scurried out, and they turned back to each other, faces tight with anger, bristling like dogs in a fight.

"None of my business?" He stopped pacing to stare at her. "Really?"

"You of all people have no right to question me about this," Brienne growled.

" 'Of all people'? " He repeated, enraged. "If anyone has the right, it's me—"

"You _don_ _'_ _t_."

"I _do_."

Furious, she swung her hand out, intending to strike him, but he caught her hand in his. So she swung the other, and he blocked it with his forearm.

Then Jaime dropped her hand, grabbed the back of her head, and slammed their mouths together.

Shocked, Brienne tried to struggle free, but his hand was iron, inescapable. He moved his lips over hers, over and over, and when she did not respond, he pulled away, just a hair's breath.

"Kiss me, damn you," he whispered, his breath cooling on her damp lips.

"I don't know how," she informed him coldly.

His pupils flared. "Just do what I do."

He kissed her again. This time it was slower, less angry, but no less fierce. Jaime used his thumb to drag her chin down, opening her up for his tongue, and the touch of it against her own made Brienne whimper into his mouth.

Oh, gods, she had wanted him for _so long_. And somehow it was even better than her most fervent imaginings.

She might have lost her mind at that point, just a little, because the remaining scraps of rational thought and self-control she might have boasted all just… melted away, like snowflakes under the full brunt of the sun.

Years of longing and frustration overcame her. Decades of self-denial and humiliation overpowered her. She drove her hands into his hair and pressed back against him, imitating his lips sliding and tongue licking while a conflagration grew in her belly.

Suddenly he tore himself away from her.

"Still none of my business?" he panted.

It took her brain a moment to catch up. It had just been a way of proving some sort of mad point, or so he thought. He hadn't really kissed her, not because he wanted her. Agony seized her chest.

"It's not," she managed, her tone dead. "It has no impact on anyone's life. He doesn't even know. He'll _never_ know."

"So you'll take this to your grave? Live in misery without him your whole life?" Jaime raked his hand through his hair in agitation. "You take nobility too far, wench."

"You mistake my reasoning." She laughed, the bitterness surprising her. "I keep it secret not out of any sense of nobility, but shame."

He frowned, confusion clear on his handsome features. "Shame? Of what? Is he a commoner?"

Brienne buried her face in her hands, unsure if she should cry again, or just laugh. The situation was beyond ludicrous; it had entered farcical and was nearing insanity.

"Not shame of him. Of myself," she mumbled through her hands. "Shame of what a poor offering I am. And fear of his reaction. The horror on his face to hear of my l—love for him."

She hated how she stumbled over the word, but she had no practice with it, did she?

His fingers were warm as he tugged her hands from her face.

"Brienne," was all he said, and when she opened her eyes, all the rage had drained from him, leaving only confusion and concern. "Anyone who would react that way is not worthy of you," he told her softly.

Feeling his touch on her, having him so close, seeing his worry and caring, made her start to shake. She just stood there and _shook_ , like a fool.

"Brienne," Jaime said again. "Tell me his name." He paused, closing his eyes as if in pain. When he looked at her again, he let out a breath and continued, "I'll help you have him, if I can."

She tore herself away, turning her back on him and retreating to the farthest corner, her breath coming harder. She could still taste him in her mouth.

" _Brienne_ ," he said a third time, and it broke her.

"It's you," she whispered. "The man I love… it's you. It's always been you."

When he was silent, she spun to face him, snapping, "Say something. Don't make me wait to hear you laugh—"

But he wasn't laughing. There was no curl of disgust on his lips, no shocked revulsion in his eyes. Just anger. Fierce, hot anger.

"For how long?" Jaime demanded.

"Forever," she replied helplessly. "Since the bath? The bear? Definitely by the time you gave me Oathkeeper and the armor."

"That long? And you said nothing?"

"What don't you understand?" She was starting to get angry again, as well. "There is nothing about our situations that permits—"

"Fuck permission," he said, and grabbed her face between his hand and wrist, kissing her again.

She gave in to it immediately, lost and confused and clinging to him for direction. It was an ungentle embrace, almost harsh, and sent waves of desire coursing through Brienne. If she'd thought herself aroused when his morning erections had pressed against her backside, the urgent thrust of his cock against her center made her almost swoon with lust.

Jaime moved her around like a puppet master, tilting her head to the side for the right angle to slide his tongue against hers, tugging her arms around him, sliding his leg between her thigh to provide the pressure she craved. He knew just where he wanted her, it seemed, and she was happy to let him guide her, because it seemed she wanted him in the same places.

There was a touch at the back of her knees, and she realized— dimly— that he'd guided her backward toward the bed.

Jaime leaned away to strip off first his tunic, then hers. Reflexively, she tried to cross her arms over her chest, but he brushed them aside, pushing her arms out at her sides and leaning in to nip at one breast, then the other.

"Want you," he panted, straightening, and the dazed gleam in his eyes thawed the last of her resistance.

" _Yes_ ," she said, and put her hands to his waist. Gaze locked with his, she began to push his breeches down, her breath coming in gasps as his flat belly and then his hard cock were exposed to her.

 _That is going to be inside me,_ she thought. Heat twisted through her at the knowledge of it.

"Brienne," he groaned, pushing at her breeches in turn. She helped him shove them down, and then they tumbled to the bed together.

The sensation of his hot skin against hers made her hiss. She'd never thought that hair-roughened flesh could be so tantalizing, but the slight abrasion of it against her nipples and belly just pushed her hunger for him further.

"Don't want to hurt you," he muttered against her lips, even as his knee forced her legs wide.

"You can't," Brienne said, her hands roaming all over him, starving for the feel of his shoulders and chest and arse. "Hurry. Take me."

Jaime shuddered, and drove himself deep into her.

She let out a keening sound of satisfaction. Finally, finally… so long, she'd waited… never thought it would happen, that she'd spend the rest of her life wanting him, never having him…

"It's so good," he was chanting in her ear as he moved. "So good, why is it so good…"

"Because… love," she managed, tilting her hips up to meet each of his thrusts. The rapture was building within her, toward something tall and shining and beautiful.

"Yes," Jaime agreed breathlessly. "Love. Love you."

The world went white for Brienne. Sight and sound dissolved. She writhed under him, her back bowed and neck arched. Her lungs labored, forced air past lips parted in a soundless scream. His arms wrapped around her with crushing force, and his hips pummeled at her, and he let out a shout that rang throughout the tent.


	4. Podrick

Outside, anyone within a dozen feet was staring at the tent. Some had tried to pretend they couldn't hear muffled shouting and then a suspicious silence followed by the unmistakable sounds of sex-cries. Others listened shamelessly, quite enjoying the entertainment of it. More than a few golden dragons exchanged hands as various bets were won and lost.

Podrick couldn't keep from grinning. He had meddled, and gods preserve him if Brienne ever found out, but it had worked out in the end. He beamed down at where he was scouring rust spots off his lady's chest-plate.

He'd known ever since Jaime had given him to Brienne as her squire that _something_ was between them. Jaime's instructions to him had been, "No matter what happens— even if she gives you a direct order that conflicts— you are to protect her at all costs. Do you understand? Take care of her, Pod."

Unspoken had been the addendum, _because I cannot,_ but Podrick had understood it was there.

And so he'd done the best he could at just that. As time passed, and he grew more and more fond of his lady— she was the elder sister he'd never known he needed— he grew to realize there was far more to her than most people saw. More, perhaps, than even Jaime was aware of.

That discussion Podrick had with Bronn, back at Riverrun, had quite opened his eyes as what the particular nature of their _something_ was. Not just warrior-bonds between soldiers, nor mutual gratitude and respect for people who had saved each other repeatedly. No, once Bronn had pointed out how they looked at each other, it was as plain as the nose on his face.

But it wasn't that they wanted to fuck, or rather, not _only_ that. No, they looked at each other as if the other were a miracle that happened to them, every single day. And underlying it all was an awful terror that something would happen to the other. Her reaction to his death, and then news that he still lived, had convinced him that something had to be done. How could he take care of her, as directed, when Jaime himself was the reason for her suffering?

It had taken a full day for Podrick to convince Brienne to go back for him. She was stubborn as an ox, his lady, and would refuse to do anything if she felt pressured. He had to make her think it was her own idea. Once she got the bit between her teeth, however, it was the work of a few minutes only for her to inform the king and queen that she had to return to King's Landing and would catch them up before they reached Winterfell. They'd headed back down the King road within the hour, leaving Clegane hurling insults after them for being stupid.

Stupid, maybe. Undoubtedly. But wasn't it also stupid to pretend you didn't love someone? Wasn't it stupid to miss out on the little scraps of joy you could find in life, especially now, when death seemed so likely?

Probably it had been wrong, strictly speaking, to reveal to Jaime the extent of Brienne's reaction to his death. And perhaps it was not completely a squirely thing to try always to wake first and leave them in bed together in the morning, and to absent himself any time Jaime wanted to use the liniment excuse.

But it had worked, had it not? They were in there, tussling and shouting and sounding very happy indeed.

Pod looked up and peered north, toward where the dead were marching across the Gift toward them. They'd likely only have a few months left, if that, but at least his lady and her love would have that much time together.

Clegane ambled up and began booting dirt over the fire. It had gotten late, and was time for sleep. Another carnal sound issued from the tent. Clegane glanced up, shook his head, and kicked one last clod of dirt for good measure.

"You'll not want to go back in there tonight, boy," Clegane said with a smirk. "Might as well come bunk with me."

"Oh, uh," said Podrick. He'd caught sight of the camp followers that he'd made the acquaintance of, a few weeks ago. Jaime had been kind enough to introduce them, and ever since, he had made a habit of spending some time in their company. They were nice girls, but he did have to argue to get them to take the coins he offered.

Clegane barked out a laugh. "Go, enjoy," he said.

So Podrick went, and enjoyed.


End file.
